The Burden of Sight
by darkbird36
Summary: Sam is tired of seeing things he doesn't want to see. Please read the warnings carefully. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: The Burden of Sight

AUTHOR: Darkbird36

SUMMARY: Sam is tired of seeing things he doesn't want to see.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Otherwise there would be no break between seasons – and Supernatural would be on every night, and twice on Sundays.

WARNINGS: Dean has a potty mouth. I tried to tell him to tone it down, but he told me to go fu-… well, you know. Later chapters contain disturbing imagry, descriptions of child abuse and violence, and mentions of rape. Please use your judgment in reading – I don't want to upset anyone.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: SN fic number two. Thank you to everyone who reviewed my last story – it motivated me to start this one. So by that logic, if you review this one two, you might get even MORE stories!

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"Sam, I swear, if you puke in my car, I will _hurt_ you." Dean ground out, glaring at his suddenly green, very drunk, brother. Sam gulped queasily and nodded, and Dean had the alarming suspicion that if his brother opened his mouth to actually _speak_, he would vomit instead. _Oh, God help him if he fucks up my car. _He accelerated, determined to get Sam to the motel before he up-chucked. _No fuckin' way am I gonna put up with the smell of stale vomit in a hot car for the next two months…_

They almost made it. Dean could see the neon sign when Sam choked out his name in a panicky, _stop the car now I'm gonna puke _kinda tone. He'd slammed on the brakes with enough force to make the seatbelts lock, and Sammy was out of the car on his knees and heaving before Dean had even unbuckled. His little brother had been retching for a good five minutes now, and Dean was torn between being grossed out and being concerned.

"Jeeze, Sammy, you're such a fuckin' _lightweight_…" he mumbled when the heaving finally ceased. He hooked his hands under Sam's armpits and hauled him to his feet as gently as he could.

"What was that - like, five beers? I'm ashamed, little brother, for you _and _me."

Sam giggled (_God, but he was DRUNK!)_ and staggered, his hands fisting into Deans shirt for balance.

"Dude! You're stretching out my fucking shirt!"

"Sorry…" Sam gasped, laughing like Dean had said something funny. _Pretty chipper or a guy who just lost his dinner in a ditch..._

"Whatever, man. You're a pathetic drunk. Why can't you just get belligerent and aggressive like everyone else? You're acting like a teenage girl at prom."

Sam snorted and laughed harder.

"I'm going to walk about one hundred feet down the road and check us in to a room, okay Sam? Stay here, understand? I'll be right back. And quiet the fuck down – you sound like a goddamn hyena or something."

Ten minutes later, when Dean returned with a room key, Sam was sitting on the ground next to the car, still laughing.

He laughed while Dean wrestled him into the passenger seat, he laughed while Dean parked and got their bags, and he laughed right up until he walked through the door to their room, doubled over, and puked all over the floor.

"Aw, fuck it, Sam!" Dean shouted, jumping back to avoid being spattered. Sam moaned, suddenly not so giggly, and staggered. His face twisted in frustration and mild disgust, Dean steadied his brother and steered him towards to bed furthest from the door. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, Sam flopped backwards onto the bed like one of those little push puppets he had loved as a kid. Long arms and legs splayed out in disarray - his eyes were already drifting shut.

"Sam, stay awake! You need to change."

"Uh-kay…" Sam sighed in response, but his eyes remained closed and thirty seconds later his breath evened out in sleep.

"Asshole…" Dean muttered, pulling off his brother's shoes, socks, and jeans with potentially more force than was necessary. It was more difficult getting the shirt up over Sam's head, but too much practice attending to each other when unconscious or battered had made both Winchesters experts at the task, and soon Sam was propped on his side and tucked under the covers. Which left Dean to clean up.

"Well, this is fun…"

They were supposed to be _relaxing_, a quick pit-stop at a favorite bar of Dean's. He had talked Sam into it, regaling him with tales of the hot waitresses, the frothy beer, and the gullible idiots who had frequented the pool tables during his last visit.

"It's a heaven on Earth, Sam." He had insisted. "And we're gonna be _half an hour_ from it on our way to that haunted farmhouse in Haughtenborough."

And, boy, wasn't he glad _now_ that he had talked his brother into it. Sam had been acting withdrawn and moody lately, sleeping fitfully and snapping irritably at stupid things. Dean had thought a night off would be good for his mood, and he had honestly been glad to see his brother drinking when he had glanced up from his pool game. The kid needed to loosen up and relax, and to a Winchester, the best way of doing _that_ was by getting a buzz on.

But Sam had barreled through 'relaxed', skipped 'pleasantly buzzed', and driven headlong into 'piss-fucking-drunk', resulting in Dean abandoning a game he was _sure_ to win, stuffing him in the car, hauling his ass into bed, changing him, and cleaning up his vomit.

Dean wasn't a big fan of 'talking', as a general rule, but Sammy had to either shape up and snap out of it or spill the beans on what was bothering him. Dean had recognized that kind of drinking – the pursuit of a drunkenness that obliterated and numbed. He had certainly been guilty of that kind of determined consumption on more than one occasion, but somehow seeing Sam trying to drown himself in a bottle felt a little frightening.

Suddenly exhausted, he mopped up the last of the mess on the floor and washed up in the little bathroom. He kept the boor cracked, listening for any sounds from his brother in the other room, but Sammy was silent, deep asleep and unmoving.

Ten minutes later Dean was, too.

xxxxxx

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's short, but I got a late start on it tonight. More next time. Feedback helps :)


	2. Chapter 2

TITLE: The Burden of Sight AUTHOR: Darkbird36

SUMMARY: Sam is tired of seeing things he doesn't want to see.  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Otherwise there would be no break between seasons – and Supernatural would be on every night, and twice on Sundays.  
WARNINGS: Bad words. Disturbing imagery, some adult themes.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: SN fic number two, chapter 2! Another short one (damnit!)but chapter 3 is nearly done as well. Sorry for the long wait, but I couldn't load any documents for DAYS. I had to make this a txt document to get it here, so if the formatting is a little off... sorry. Thanks for all the encouraging feedback. :)

xxxxx

Sam woke to the oh-so pleasant sound of Dean shouting "Rise and shine, Party Animal!" as he whipped back the curtains, allowing obscenely bright sunlight to fill the room. His head throbbed painfully at the noise and the light, and he was pretty sure something had crawled into his mouth and died while he was sleeping. He groaned and buried his head under the pillow. What the Hell had he been thinking? Come to think of it, what the Hell had happened? He remembered ordering his fifth beer, Dean effortlessly hustling a group of tipsy locals, then…. Puking in a ditch? _Oh, shit… Dean's never gonna let me live this down…_

"Up'n at 'em, Champ!" Dean shouted, far louder he needed to. Sam felt him yank the covers off of his body. _Yeah… this is gonna be a LONG day…_ Gritting his teeth, he tossed the pillow aside and rolled to a seated position. His belly seemed to keep rolling for about ten seconds after the rest of him stopped, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, determined not the throw up. Again.

"Fuck off." He managed to mumble in what he hoped was a sufficiently threatening manner. Ignoring Dean's knowing smirk he wobbled to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom.

"Oh, by the way, Sam…I think I used all the hot water. I was a little gross… you know, from cleaning up your vomit last night," Sam glared from the bathroom doorway for a moment before slamming the door shut, wincing as the abrupt sound sent a spike of pain through his temples. _Bright, Sam. Really smart._

Leaning over the sink, he splashed cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth before hazarding a look at his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale and nauseous – his eyes were dull. God, he felt terrible. He hadn't had a hangover in a long time, and he'd nearly forgotten how fucking miserable they could make you.

_ At least it wasn't for nothing…_ he thought, rolling his head on his shoulders to ease some of the tension there. He hadn't dreamt at all last night – or, if he had, he couldn't remember what he'd dreamt. And that was well worth the feeling of waking up with the taste of puke in his teeth. Anything was better than the things he saw when he did dream.

For two months now, he'd been having them – they were nightmares, visions. He knew that they were real, just as he knew that there was nothing he could do to save the people in them. The things he saw had all happened _before_ Sam bore witness to them. Sometimes _decades_ before. And most of them weren't supernatural in nature, either – a distressing number involved acts of violence perpetrated by other people – rape, murder, child abuse, men beating their wives. Two weeks ago he'd even 'seen' a boy drown a litter of kittens in his toilet.

When he did have premonitory dreams of things that hadn't occurred yet, he woke gasping, alarmed, and often screaming. Dean always roused as well, vigilant enough even in sleep to recognize the sound of Sam in distress. But his big brother had slept through roughly a hundred of these new visions over the last two months – because when Sam woke from them, he was silent and still. There was no sense of urgency, no drive to save anyone. Whatever macabre film was playing in his head would wind to a stop, and he would open his eyes, awake and fully aware of his surroundings. Fully aware of the fact that it was too late.

Clenching his fists in frustration, he clamped down on that train of thought – he was far too hung over to think about it right now. Resigning himself to a cold shower he stripped and scrubbed down as quickly as he could, trying to rid himself of the gritty feeling that clung to his skin.

Ten minutes later, having brushed his teeth and donned clean clothes, he exited the bathroom to find that Dean had packed up both their stuff and was ready to go.

"Ready to hit the road, Sunshine?"

"Dean, really… I'm sorry that you had to deal with my drunkenness and everything, but could you just lay off a little?" he pleaded, hefting his bag with a grimace and following his brother to the car.

"No can do, Sammy boy. You made an ass out of yourself last night, and as your sibling it's my right to shove your face in it. Plus, who knows when an opportunity like this will come around again? I haven't seen you drink like that since the party in high school, you know, when Shelly Cleaver dumped you and told the whole school you were a bad kisser."

"Gee, thanks, Dean. Humiliating memories of high school are just what I need right now."

"Yeah, well, you sure got even with her…" Dean chuckled, firing up the engine and pulling out on the road

"Somehow I don't think getting wasted and puking all over her counts."

"Dude – did you see her face? I thought it was going to turn into a scene from Carrie or something. And then you tried to wipe it off and ended up fondling her boob…" Dean laughed, "I've faced creatures from Hell less frightening."

Sam groaned in embarrassment and leaned his forehead against the window. He did, indeed, remember her face – and the slap she'd given him that had knocked him on his wobbly ass. Thank god they had moved again soon after that.

It was so typical of Dean to torture him with this kind of irrelevant knit-picking when all he wanted to do was curl up in a dark, quiet place and nurse his rapidly growing headache. Squinting against an increasing pressure in his skull, he fumbled the glove box open and rifled through it, looking for the bottle of aspirin that they kept there. _Where the hell is it…_ Dean was still chuckling in the driver's seat, oblivious. Sam shifted uncomfortably, feeling abruptly flushed and lightheaded.

The car hit a small pothole and sudden agony lanced through his sinuses. He couldn't help the moan that hissed through his teeth as he pressed a hand to his forhead. He felt the car decelerate slightly, heard Dean's voice, questioning, suddenly void of any teasing tone. He felt the familiar surge of light and pain blooming behind his eyes and had time to think – _a fucking vision…_ - before he fell out of awareness and into someone else's nightmare.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for all the feedback! I'm hoping to do at least 1 chapter a day for the next few days, and it keeps me going. Boy, poor Sam is getting a little more whipped than I originally intended… but he's just so cure when he's miserable… :)


	3. Chapter 3

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter contains mentions of rape and some mildly disturbing imagery. If this stuff bothers you, turn back now._**

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Dean was still chuckling over the memory of Shelly slapping his brother when Sam gasped and hunched forward, the heel of his hand pressed between his eyes. At first Dean thought it was the unavoidable pothole wreaking havoc with his hung-over passenger. But when Sam remained hunched and still, failing to make a bitchy comment about his driving, Dean realized what was happening.

"Sammy?" he questioned, pulling over to the side of the road. Sam remained unmoving, silent except for the rapid, shallow breathing that always accompanied these things. A think line of sweat made a path down his cheek and the hand pressed to his face dropped bonelessly to his lap. His eyes moved rapidly side to side, tracking something only he could see.

"Shit," Dean whispered, hating the uncertainty, the helplessness of watching his brother disappear inside himself. Sighing in frustration, he reached out to rest his palm on the back of Sam's neck, waiting.

Five minutes later Sam trembled under his hand, his eyes sliding closed and his body beginning to slump forward. Dean quickly adjusted his grip, clasping his brother's shoulder and drawing him back gently to lean against the seat.

"Sam? You with me, little brother?"

"Yeah, just, uh – give me a sec…" he mumbled, eyes still closed. A rivulet of blood dribbled lazily from his right nostril and dripped from his chin.

Dean cursed and grabbed a wad of fast food napkins from the back seat, pressing them under Sam's nose. Sam opened his eyes, seemingly bewildered.

"I'm bleeding."

"No shit, Sherlock. Hold these there and tilt your head back. Watch the upholstery."

"Your bedside manner sucks, Dean."

"You're not in a bed, genius, you're in my car. When you're in a bed, feel free to hemorrhage all over it. But until then try your best to clot quickly."

Sam shot him a look, the wad of napkins slowly turning red.

"So where are we going?"

"What?"

"Your vision. What did you see, and where do we have to go?"

Sam looked briefly confused before his entire face closed down. Dean could practically hear the shutters slamming.

"We already have a job – in Haughtenborough. Remember?"

"Yeah, but dude, no one even lives in that house. It'll keep. Now, whatever you saw must be important – you don't get these things for nothing."

"Well, this time it is apparently for nothing. It's too late, it already happened."

Sighing, Sam pulled the tissues away from his nose, satisfied that the bleeding had stopped. He glanced at the bloodstained paper and gulped, looking queasy.

"Are you sure? Maybe-"

"I'm sure, okay? Please, just – trust me on this? There's nothing we can do for her."

Dean didn't like the hopeless look on his brother's face, or the grim certainty in Sam's voice, but he really couldn't argue with him over the visions – those were Sam's alone. There was something... off about his brother's reaction to this vision, but Dean couldn't quite put his finger on it.

As he eased the Impala back onto the road he darted another look at Sam, who was slumped tiredly in the seat.

"What did you see?"

"Dean – it doesn't matter. I don't want to talk about it." There was a note of finality in Sam's voice – he was done discussing the subject. For the second time in as many days, Dean found himself wondering what the hell was going on with his little brother, and what it was going to take to pry the information from Sam so he could fix it.

"Fine. Whatever." He grumbled, feigning indifference. Sam ignored the sarcastic comment, closing his eyes and turning his face away, apparently to sleep.

_Sam, what the hell am I gonna do with you?  
_xxxxxx

Sam pressed his forehead against the window, hot anger and hopelessness coursing through him. So much for avoiding them. Apparently he was going to see this shit one way or another – asleep or awake. As irrational as he knew it was, he couldn't help but feel that the pain of a waking vision was punishment for having tried to avoid it. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sunlight and the vicious scene replayed behind his eyes –

_A young woman, dark hair, pretty face. Walking home from work, pulled into an alley. Raped and strangled, her body abandoned to the trash and rats._

Sam felt dirty, having witnessed her brutal violation, and wished desperately for a shower. They were still three hours from Haughtenborough and the poltergeist, and he didn't relish the thought of avoiding Dean's questions until then. His brother was a pit bull when he latched on to something, and he had obviously decided that Sam was hiding something. When Dean said _'fine, whatever'_ what he really meant was _I'm letting this go for now, but I'll get it out of you later_.

Sighing, Sam let his body relax into the seat. If he were going to be able to fend of his older brother's inquiries later, he needed to rest now. And as much as he hated the dreams, the visions while he was awake were worse. If he had to see it, he would rather see it discretely in his sleep.

The residual exhaustion from the vision and the smooth motion of the car had him drifting off before he realized it, and soon he was dreaming again.

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_The woman from his vision stood before him, pink waitresses uniform torn, smeared with dirt and blood and other unthinkable things. The little yellow name tage that hung from the spoiled fabric read 'Cindy'. Her exposed breasts were covered in scratches and bruises, her neck raw and bruised where her attacker had strangled her. But worst was her face, twisted in grief and horror, her eyes wide with desperation._

_"I needed you to see!" She cried, her voice clear despite her ruined throat._

_"Why? I can't help you! I can't do anything!"_

_"You're my Witness." Ciny gasped, her eyes glazing over and her body draining of color. Her flesh began to droop, and a horrified Sam watched as twenty years of decay occurred in ten seconds. Her yellowed bones clattered to the ground before him, her skull rolling until it came to rest against his feet, empty eye sockets staring upward. He stood frozen as the jaw creaked open and the skull spoke, using Dean's voice –_

"Sam! Wake up!"

Sam jerked forward, gasping. He was in the Impala, his brother staring at him, a hand on his shoulder.

"What?" he asked, trying to push back the lingering threads of his dream.

"We're here." Dean said, gesturing towards the front of the car. They were parked in front of a generic-looking motel room. Dean was staring at him, a calculating look on his face. Sam wondered uneasily if his brother had been able to tell he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes tiredly before opening his door and standing, his back popping and stretching.

"I'm going to go take a shower, if that's cool with you." He said, avoiding Dean's gaze as he grabbed his bag from the back seat.

"Yeah. Sure. Just save some hot water for me." Dean grinned, goading him. Sam smiled back at him in relief – sparring he could handle, it was the serious stuff he couldn't deal with right now.

"Don't worry – despite having grown up with Neanderthals, _I_ somehow managed to acquire some basic civilized manners."

"Neanderthals? Hey, would a caveman be able to handle more than thirty kinds of weapons?"

"Maybe with the proper training."

"You know, that would be kind of cool – a heavily armed caveman assassin. Encino Man meets The Terminator."

"Dean, only you would think that's cool."

"Oh, come on! Anyone with testicles would think that's cool! I geuss that's why you don't seem amused…."

Sam swatted at him as they entered the room, Dean's immature jibes _almost_ enough to banish the memory of Cindy's wide, pleading eyes.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Woo hoo! One more chapter and this becomes the longest story I've posted on this site. I credit all the kind feedback. :)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This actually hasa bit of action in it. Sorry for the delay in posting, I've had company and haven't had much time to write. Hopefully I'll post again tomorrow. :)

**WARNING! This chapter contains descriptions of graphic child abuse and violence. PLEASE do not read if you are triggered by this sort of thing!**

****

"So, as far as I can tell, a simple banishing ritual should clear out the poltergeist." Sam announced, hunched over his laptop in the corner of the room. Dean was cleaning his gun and loading up on rock salt rounds, preparing for the evening's hunt.

"Sounds pretty straightforward." He announced, peering into the chamber of his weapon. There was a momentary silence, then Dean cleared his throat and put the gun down.

"We should be done here quickly, and we don't have another gig lined up. Why don't we check out whatever it was that you saw in your vision – even if it's too late for one person maybe we can still get the fucker and save future victims."

Sam stiffened, his fingers stilling on the keyboard. His jaw clenched, and Dean recognized the look of his little brother digging in his heels.

"We already talked about this Dean, I told you _there's nothing we can do_. It's over, and there's no way to find the… monster that did it." Dean didn't miss Sam's hesitation, and the use of the word 'monster' sounded strange and oddly emotional.

"For fuck's sake, Sam, we _didn't_ already talk about this – _I_ talked, _you_ clammed up. Now what the hell is going on with you? Normally you can't follow these visions fast enough – now you're avoiding them?" Sam sat frozen, staring at the tabletop in front of him like it was all he could see.

"Dean. Please, just drop it." His voice was thick and strained, and Dean could tell he was clenching his teeth. "If I thought there was _anything_ we could do, you know I'd make every effort to help, but there's _nothing_ we can do, and talking about it just makes that more apparent and frustrating."

"Fine," Dean sighed, taking in his brother's tense posture and anguished eyes. "But you need to snap out of it and focus, Sam, or you'll start making mistakes that'll put us _both_ in danger."

Sam's fists clenched where they rested on the keyboard. There was a gleam of anger in his eyes, but he gave a jerky nod and remained silent. Dean watched him for a few more seconds, then stood and began gathering his supplies.

"It's almost dark – we should head out and finish this. I wanna have time to hit the bar and make some cash before we leave."

Sam finally looked at him, his face an emotionless mask. They stared at each other for a moment, then Sam turned away and began preparing the satchels for the banishment ritual. Dean felt inexplicably angry with his brother – he knew there was more to it than the younger Winchester was letting on. Something was eating away at him, and there was nothing Dean could do to help if Sam wouldn't open up. He could only hope that that would happen before his his little brother was permanantly damaged.

* * *

Sam shifted slightly side-to-side, staring at the decrepit old farmhouse in front of him. Dean stood to his right, a shotgun held loosely in his hands. The roof was sagging in the middle, making the two front windows angle like angry eyes. The ravages of time on the building before him conjured echoes of Cindy, rotting and crumbling to bones.

_ Stop it, _he ordered his brain, Dean's words at the motel ringing in his ears. He had to focus. Their safety depended on it.

"Well, no time like the present!" Dean exclaimed, cocking the gun and moving towards the front porch. Sam could see the familiar mix of excitement and caution in his brother's eyes as he followed him up the hazardous front steps towards the front door. As they moved closer to the threshold, the door rattled in its frame, ancient paint chipping and dusting into the air.

"This little bastard's not wasting any time, is 'e?" Dean grinned before pulling his foot back and kicking the door open. He advanced into the house before Sam, weapon at ready, eyes scanning the vacant room. They had decided on a unified approach – Sam would place the satchels in the walls while Dean stood watch against possible attack. Sam knew his brother was thinking of his near-strangling in Lawrence when he laid out the plan, but he hadn't argued. _He_ still remembered the knives embedded in the table Dean had used as a shield, and he honestly felt better keeping his brotherin sight.

"Go, Sam." Dean ordered, gesturing towards the Southern corner with the shotgun. Moving swiftly, Sam darted for the wall. He kicked out at the wall, the old wood giving easily under his foot. Slamming the satchel into the hole, he moved back into position beside Dean.

A sudden small cyclone of dust kicked up in the center of the room and an angry keen filled the room.

"Get ready," Dean cautioned, "He's pissed now. Move fast."

_ Like you need to tell me that,_ Sam thought wryly, moving into the next room. It appeared to have been a kitchen – rotting cabinet doors hung haphazardly from rusted hinges and a smattering of more recent beer bottles and trash littered the floor. As Sam hurried toward the corner of the room, bottles began to rattle and tremble around the room. As he was kicking a hole in the wall the first bottle exploded, glass shrapnel pinging off the floor. Dean cursed, and Sam threw the satchel into the hole, anxiety filling him at the sound of his older brother's pain-filled voice.

Another bottle burst violently, and Sam felt the sudden sting of glass biting into the back of his calves. He ducked his head, shielding his face with his arm and running alongside Dean towards the door. They cleared the threshold as the rest of the bottles exploded, shards shooting up with enough force to stick in the ceiling. They took only a moment to catch their breath – the longer this took, the more likely the chance that they would be seriously hurt.

"Come on," Dean panted, blood dribbling down his chin where a piece of glass had nicked him. The remaining two satchels clutched in either hand, Sam straightened and followed his brother into the next room.

As he stepped into the shadowed room, an electric tingle raced through his legs and body, into his head, where it exploded into a blinding pain. He cried out, the satchels unintentionally dropping from his hands as he stumbled and grabbed uselessly at his skull. He heard Dean call out to him but couldn't reply, his breath stolen from him. _This can't happen now,_ he thought desperately, but the thought had barely formed before it was washed away on a tide of white light and a new vision flashed onto the inside of his eyes.

_ The room was lighter, cleaner, but somehow still neglected looking. A sparse looking bed sat against one wall, a boy of roughly eight laying prone underneath. His little hands clutched at a toy truck, but his eyes were full of fear and anxiety. The floor reverberated with heavy footsteps, coming closer, and the boy flinched with each thud._

_ He squeezed his eyes shut as the door banged open and a large, dark-haired man stumbled into the room._

_ "Toby!" he barked, his face a mask of anger. "You little shit! Where the hell are you?" His eyes narrowed as they came to rest on the bed, and in one swift move he darted an arm under the hanging covers and yanked the boy into the open. Toby whimpered like a puppy, cowering and trying to sink into himself._

_ "What did I tell you about playing with my tools, you little fuck!" the man snarled, shaking the boy viciously. Toby's head snapped back and forth on his neck and he wailed._

_ "Shut up!" The man backhanded him and threw him to the floor. Blood from his split lip spattered Toby's chin and he scrambled, trying to get under his bed again, moaning in terror. His teeth bared in fury, the man began kicking the boy, delicate bones snapping under his heel. The toy truck clattered across the floor, falling from tiny hands suddenly gone limp. Toby stopped moving, stopped making any noise. A lazy bubble of blood and spit formed at his lips and burst with a horrible finality. His eyes rolled to the side, unseeing. _

_ The man kept kicking, kicking, kicking. _

* * *

Sam came back to himself with a sharp cry of denial and pain, his body jolting with shock. He was lying on his side on the floor, facing the rusted bed frame that still rested against the far wall. He gasped, his chest tight with grief. The toy truck, coated in dust and cobwebs, lay on its side under the bed.

He felt the vibration of running footsteps in the floorboards under his cheek and flinched. Someone burst into the room behind him and he whimpered, but could not tear his gaze from the little toy truck in front of him. Hard hands grasped his shoulders and he tried to jerk away, anguish building in his throat.

"Sammy! It's okay! I've got you." Dean's voice filtered through the panic and the pain, and Sam stilled, shaking and panting. His brother pulled him into a sitting position and the room spun, Dean's image blurring and warping. He squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears plopping onto his cheeks.

He saw the toy fall from Toby's hands, his last breath bubbling from him, and a great, broken sob burst painfully from his throat. Hands drew him against Dean's chest and he clutched desperately at the fabric of his brother's shirt. He was distantly aware of Dean rocking him gently as he buried his face in the familiar warmth and wept, for a life cut brutally short, for the horror of once again bearing witness.

* * *

Dean held his brother as he cried, rocking him gently and rubbing his back. When Sam had dropped to the floor, Dean had reacted instantly, grabbing the satchels and making quick work of finishing the banishment. Leaving his brother on the floor, unprotected, had been like tearing out his own guts. But he knew the best way to protect Sam was to get rid of the poltergeist and get him out of there.

He had returned to the bedroom to find Sam disoriented and afraid. There was an awful agony in his eyes, and the tortured sob that had burst from him made Dean's chest tighten with sympathy and worry.

Now Sam's hands were fisted in his shirt, the force of his sobs quaking his body, and Dean felt agonizingly helpless. He had never seen his brother cry like this, and a heavy seed of panic grew in his gut. He was more sure than ever that something _wrong_ was happening with Sam, but for the life of him he had no idea _what_.

Sam was quieting somewhat, his wrenching sobs reduced to gasping whimpers. Dean pressed his cheek to the top of his brother's head and squeezed him close. He was fully aware that this was a colossal chick-flick moment, but Sammy was so _broken_ that he was afraid if he _didn't_ hang on to him,Sam would fly apart like the bottles in the kitchen.

"It's okay, Sammy," he repeated softly, "It's gonna be okay."

He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews – I want to answer them all personally, but I've barely had time to write at all, so please accept this generic but very sincere thanks to everyone who reviewed – I wouldn't have the willpower to write this without you! 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

It took Sam a long time to calm down. By the time he pulled away, wiping furiously at his wet cheeks, Dean's whole body had cramped and stiffened. He stifled a moan as he sat back and stretched, his back popping.

"You okay, Sam?" he asked softly. Sam's breath hitched but he nodded shakily and darted a quick look at Dean. He looked terrible – drained and beaten down – and Dean's insides twisted with apprehension.

"Good. Now you have to tell me what's going on, Sammy. I gotta say, man, you're freakin' me out. I can't take this anymore – you hafta talk to me."

Sam's eyes closed briefly, and Dean could see him gathering his resolve. When his eyes opened, they darted to the side, staring at something under the bed. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"It was a vision, right? Was it the same one you had earlier?"

"No, not the same vision, but they were…. similar." Sam replied, his voice thick and hoarse. Dean raised his eyebrows at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I – uh, I've been having these dreams – visions – of stuff that's already happened. Things I can't change or do anything about. And they're, uh – not really supernatural in nature, besides being visions, I mean."

"How long has this been going on?" Dean questioned, a sudden suspicion growing in him. Sam ducked his head guiltily, and Dean's unease increased.

"A while, now, I geuss…" Sam trailed off, avoiding his eyes.

"How long, Sam?"

"A few months…"

"Goddamnit, Sam! Why didn't you tell me?" Dean exploded, frustration and hurt coursing though him. "A few months! You have no idea what's causing these things, what they could do to you, and you _hide_ them from me?"

"Dean, I-"

"Look what happened tonight, Sam. I had to leave you exposed and vulnerable in order to save both our hides – you could have been killed!"

"Don't you think I know that! I don't _know_ why I didn't tell you! I'm just tired of being a fucking _freak_! I don't want to see this shit anymore!" Sam staggered to his feet, his face tight with an angry despair. Dean scrambled up after his brother, reaching out a steadying hand.

"Whoa, Tiger, calm down. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to freak out, I'm just – worried." Sam was obviously in a sensitive state, and Dean didn't want him to loose it again.

The anger suddenly drained from Sam's body and his head drooped wearily.

"Dean-" he pleaded softly, "It was… horrible. A man, he-" his voice broke and he took a shuddering breath. Dean rested his palm on the back of Sam's neck, squeezing gently.

"He killed a little boy, in this room. He- he _kicked_ him to death. For playing with his tools…" Sam finally looked up, his eyes full of sickness and grief. Dean sighed, his heart aching for the boy and for his brother. Why did it have to be Sam who saw this shit? He took everything to heart, surrendered to empathy too easily. _Maybe **that's** why,_ Dean thought wryly, steering his brother towards the front door.

"Come on, Sam. Let's get out of here, okay? Go back to the motel, get some rest." Sam didn't respond, but he offered no resistance as Dean led him outside to the Impala and buckled him in the passenger seat. He was quiet the entire ride back, but he twitched and shifted restlessly in the seat, and Dean suspected he was flinching from the memories of violence he'd been forced to witness.

Once back in the motel room, Sam stalked wordlessly into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Hearing the shower turn on, Dean sat heavily on his bed and stared at the closed bathroom door.

He had no idea how to help his brother, and it was pissing him off. This wasn't something he could solve with fists and guns. Dean was an experienced hunter, and a damn good one, too. But Sam's freaky head was a battlefield that left him feeling disoriented and helpless. He needed help, but who the hell do you turn to when your brother starts seeing dead people? He was pretty sure they didn't write a self-help guide to brain-splitting visions of death.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair he stood and began pacing, leftover adrenaline and worry making him restless. He needed to know more about these visions – maybe there was a connecting factor. Digging through his bag, he pulled out a mostly-blank composition notebook and a pen.

Ten minutes later, when Sam emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Dean tossed the notebook and pen to him.

"I need you to write down everything you can remember about these new visions. If we're going to figure this out, we need details."

Sam stood dumbly for a moment, apparently taken aback by Dean's sudden request.

"I- you want me to write _all_ of them down?"

"As much as you can remember. There may be similarities that we can use to get to the root of this."

"Dean-" Sam blurted, looking down at the notebook and then back at his brother.

"What?"

"Don't you think it's possible that this is just another… development in my abilities? I mean, I don't know if this _can_ be fixed. What if it's just… me?"

Dean could see the anxiety in Sam's face, could hear the unspoken question.

_What if I'm like this forever?_

"We're going to fix this, Sam. Even if it _is_ just a natural development of your abilities, there has to be a way to control them better. And there _must_ be a reason you're seeing these things. If we figure out what that reason is…" Dean trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. _Maybe, MAYBE we can fix you._

"Okay." Sam acquiesced, but he looked at the notebook like it was a viper and Dean had asked him to kiss it.

"Let's get some food first, okay?" Dean offered, seeing his brother's reluctance. "We can eat, maybe get some sleep, do it in the morning. We've had a long day."

Sam looked up him gratefully, and his relief was so strong it nearly made Dean tell him to forget the whole idea. But they needed to get to the bottom of this, and so far he had no Plan B.

"There was a cute waitress at that diner up the street." Dean suggested, grinning lecherously. Sam looked at him incredulously.

"We passed that place going about forty five, Dean. There's no _way_ you could have seen the waitress from the car at that speed."

"Oh, my brother, I have many skills of which you are unaware…" Dean proclaimed, grabbing his keys. "I can smell a hot chick from two miles away."

"Yeah, well maybe you should shower before we go, or they'll smell _you_ from up to two miles away."

"Ingrate." Dean mumbled, discretely sniffing an armpit. "I smell fine. That's the musk of manliness."

Sam snorted and shot him an _if you say so_ look.

"Drives the ladies wild." Dean insisted as they walked to the car. "Wait and see."

"Like I have a choice." Sam mumbled.

"Hey, there are guys who would pay good money to watch a master like myself in action. You could learn a thing or two about the fine art of seduction."

"Dean, your form of 'seduction' is about as much of a 'fine art' as performing surgery with a chainsaw."

"Oh, ho! So say the boy who got bitch-slapped to the ground by a 100 lb cheerleader!"

"Are we back on this again?" Sam groaned, buckling in.

"Oh, you better believe it!" Dean crowed, relieved to be bickering with Sam. An annoyed Sam was a normal Sam. And anything was better than the bleak look that had hollowed out his brothers eyes earlier.

_I'm gonna erase that look for good, Sammy, I promise._

But first, there was food and hot waitresses to attend to.

* * *

A/N: A little shorter, but hopefully I'll have more time tomorrow! Thanks for all the wonderful reviews – you guys rock, hardcore! 


	6. Chapter 6

WARNING: There is a racial slur used in this chapter, as well as racially motivated violence. In no way do I advocate this kind of ignorant hatred, but it was necessary for the story. Please use your judgement in reading this.

* * *

"I'm done," Sam said wearily, tossing the now-full notebook onto Dean's bead. Dean looked up from the magazine he had been reading, taking in his brother's haggard appearance. Sam looked utterly drained, pale and sullen. 

"That's everything?" He asked, picking up the notebook and thumbing through it.

"Everything I can remember, which is more than I would like…" Sam sat heavily on his bed, his shoulders sagging with fatigue. He had been writing all morning and most of the afternoon, and his right arm and hand were painfully cramped.

"So, I guess I should read it."

"Yeah," Sam looked up, rubbing the back of his stiff neck, "I guess you should." He looked slightly uncomfortable.

"I think I'll go get some dinner for us while you look that over."

"No fuckin' rabbit food or tofu dogs, alright? You come back here with anything that started as a bean and you're toast."

"Dean, I'm impressed you even know what tofu is made of."

"Yeah, well, I screwed this _hot_ vegan chef a couple times on a job in Reno last year. She could do this thing with her legs-"

"Dean! I get it, okay?" Sam shot him a slightly amused look. "I don't even _want_ to know how tofu was involved in all of that."

"Good, 'cause you're not gonna. Now remember, grease and meat."

"One of these days I'm going to get you to eat a salad."

"And on that day, pigs will take to the skies and it will rain frogs."

"You're so fuckin' immature…" Sam chuckled. "I'll see you in a bit." He left, looking slightly less beaten down. His brother gone, Dean turned to the booklet in front of him. He felt a little guilty about reading it – it felt like an invasion of Sammy's privacy. But he had no other options that he could see. Sighing, he opened to the first page and began to read.

* * *

Sam walked, head down, in the direction of the diner they'd eaten at last night. He wasn't really hungry, to be honest, but he didn't want to sit in their room and watch Dean sift through his dreams. It was pleasantly warm, the afternoon light taking on a olden hue. Haughtenborough, Virginia was a small town, and this stretch of road was quiet and undeveloped. Old, gnarled trees cast speckled shadows over the road, and Sam felt himself relaxing somewhat. Dean would be a while more with the notebook – maybe he would just find a place to sit and think for a bit. 

There was a huge old oak tree just ahead, set back a little from the road in a swatch of gently swaying grass. Face turned towards the sun, Sam picked his way carefully towards the base of the trunk. A gentle breeze rustled the hair at the base of his neck and he actually smiled. At least he could get away from his fucked up life for a little while.

Sitting between two thick roots he leaned back, his shoulders touching the bark of the tree. His brief hope of escape shattered cruelly as a jolt shot through his spine and a vision pulled him inside of himself.

_A group of angry looking white men wrestled a struggled young black man towards a much smaller version of the tree, yanking him by a rope secured around his wrists._

_"Yer gonna hang for this, boy!" one of them shouted, punctuating his statement with a kick to the back of his victim's knee. The young man went down with a grunt of pain, but when he saw the noose being looped over a branch he shot to his feet and made a desperate run for freedom._

_He didn't get more than five feet before he was yanked back by the rope around his wrists, but he continued to struggle frantically as the noose was dragged over his head._

_"I didn't do anything!" he cried out, his face twisted with panic. "I didn't-"_

_His shout was cut off as the two largest men hauled on the rope and yanked him into the air. He struggled for a few minutes, his eyes bulging and his body jerking weakly before his tongue protruded and his eyes rolled back in his head._

_They released the rope and the man's body thumped limply to the ground. One of them spit on his corpse, disgust in his eyes._

_"Won't be lookin' at our women now, will ya, nigger?"_

Sam jerked away from the tree as if he'd been burned, his breath exploding out of him. Scrambling to his feet he darted towards the road, desperate to put distance between him and the site of the lynching. Sick despair churned in his gut, mingling with hatred for the men responsible.

"_Fuck!_" he cried, dropping to a crouch at the side of the road and covering his face. _I can't get away from it. No matter what I do, I can't get away…_ He felt like he was losing his mind – disjointed thoughts and emotions clammered in his aching head, none of them lasting longer than an instant. A warm sensation on his upper lip made him brush a hand under his nose, a crimson smear gleaming wetly on his fingers when he pulled them away. His nose was bleeding again and he felt lightheaded.

_I have to get back to the hotel room,_ he thought vaguely. He couldn't stay here, crouched on an empty stretch of road. Gathering his resolve he stood, swaying slightly for a moment. Despite having walked for less than ten minutes, the motel looked impossibly far away. Holding a hand to his nose, he started staggering towards the distant gleam of the Impala.

He got twenty feet before another vision dropped him to the pavement. The pain of his knees striking was remote as he watched _a car full of drunk teenagers veer off the road and flip, the wheels of the car spinning lazily in the air_ _as gas dribbled from the tank. There was no sound from inside the car._

"Stop it!" he screamed, clutching his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He panted, suddenly too hot. Fiery panic seized at his lungs and he tried to make himself as small as possible, terrified that if he moved he would spark another vision of death and brutality.

_I can't do this, I can't do this…_ he thought manically. _I can't TAKE anymore!_

There was only one person he needed then – Dean. His hand shook as he fumbled his cell phone from his pocket, nearly dropping it, and he had to stop and breathe for a moment before he could dial his brother's number.

Dean picked up on the second ring.

"Sam? You at the diner?"

"Dean-" he moaned, hating the weakness in his voice.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was immediately concerned. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I- I can't _stop_, Dean. Everytime I move, everything- Please, come get me…" His voice trailed off into a breathy whimper.

"I'm coming, Sammy. Hang on, you hear me? I'm coming to get you."

Sam saw the distant motion of his brother leaving the motel, heard the Impala roar to life, and sagged with relief. The phone dropped from his suddenly weak hands, bouncing off the pavement with a sharp crack.

Dean was on his way.

Xxxxxx

A/N: Although at this point this story seems to be an excuse to torture Sammy, I am going somewhere with this, I promise…. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning: This chapter contains a brief, non-descriptive scene involving sexual abuse. It's rather upsetting, though, so if you are triggered easily please use caution in reading this.**

* * *

"Hey, buddy, you okay?" 

The strange and sudden voice behind him made Sam jump, and he twisted quickly to identify the source. There was a dusty blue pick-up parked behind him, a concerned looking man in his fifties moving towards him. He hadn't even heard the truck approach.

"Uh, yeah… I'm- I'm okay." He stuttered. "My brother- he's coming to get me."

"Yer nose is bleedin', son."

"It's fine. Really, I'm just gonna- wait for my brother."

"Well at least let me help you out of the road – not a real smart place to wait."

Before Sam could object the stranger had reached down and grasped his arm, pulling gently upwards.

"Don't!" Sam cried, but it was too late.

His face smoother and younger, the stranger stood in a basement, a camera in his hands. A little girl stood in front of him, twisting the hem of her pink Barbie dress nervously. He crouched before her, smiling.

_"Can you take off your dress for me, sweetie? You're very pretty. You're so pretty, I wanna take some pictures of you so everyone else can see how special you are."_

_She looked at him, her little face round and trusting._

_"Okay, Daddy."_

Sam wrenched his arm away, revolted and enraged. He tried to get his legs under him, determined not to let the man touch him again, but his feet tangled. He didn't have time to throw out a hand to catch himself, and the back of his head connected solidly with the pavement.

* * *

Dean had only read about four pages of the notebook and he already felt sick and depressed. It was as if the worst of humanity had been condensed into the pages. 

_Sammy's been living this shit for two whole months? How the hell has he managed to hold it together this long?_

So far there were no connecting factors that he could identify – people of all ages, races, religions. Some of them killed, some maimed, some brutalized. The only things that bound them together were fear, pain, and darkness.

Halfway through page five his cell phone rang, and he glanced at the caller ID. Sam. _Probably calling to ask what kind of pie I want_ he mused, flipping the phone open

"Sam? You at the diner?"

"Dean-"

His brother's voice sent an immediate anxiety through him. Something was wrong.

"Sam?"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I- I can't _stop_, Dean. Everytime I move, everything- Please, come get me…" Sam wasn't making much sense, but Dean could hear _come get me_ clear as day

"I'm coming, Sammy. Hang on, you hear me? I'm coming to get you."

The call cut out with a loud _crack_, and thought for sure his heart would beat itself out of his chest with fear. He grabbed wildly at his keys and ran outside, his eyes searching in the direction of the diner. _There,_ a distant form huddled on the road, a blue truck pulling to a stop behind it.

Dean practically threw himself into the car, squealing the tires as he pushed the motor to a high whine. Sammy was close enough to see, but he seemed so _fucking_ far away, and the ten seconds it took for him to close the distance between them were ten seconds Dean swore he didn't breathe.

When he screeched to a halt and jumped from the Impala, Sam was trying to push himself up from the ground with his arms. Blood dripped from his nose and the look in his eyes reminded Dean of a panicked animal. A middle-aged man with black hair stood over him, his hand loosely fisted.

"Get the fuck away from him!" Dean growled, lunging at the stranger. He didn't think twice as he pulled back a fist and drove it into the man's face, dropping him like a rock.The manlay on the road, dazed, eyes blinking languidly. Convinced that he would stay that way for the time being, Dean shook the sting from his knuckles and turned to his brother.

Sam had managed to sit up and was staring at Dean with a desperate expression.

"Sam, you okay?" he asked, kneeling. Sam's face twisted miserably, and Dean thought he might cry. But he swallowed thickly and answered.

"No, not really." He paused, his gaze darting to the prone form of the pick-up owner. "You just attacked that guy."

"Well, he was goin' after you, wasn't he?"

"No, not me." Sam said bitterly, and Dean knew there was more going on here than he knew about.

"Come on," he said, gently helping his brother to stand. "Let's get out of here." He glanced at the man lying behind them. "But, uh, if I just punched an innocent man, maybe I should help him. Or, you know, apologize."

"He's not innocent." Sam ground out. "He deserves a hell of a lot worse."

Dean raised his eyebrows but didn't comment, opening the car door for him. Sam hesitated for a moment, an odd look of apprehension on his face, then rested a shaking hand tentatively on the roof. Relief flooded his eyes, and he quickly scrambled into the car.

"Hang on just a moment, okay?" Dean said, starting the engine."We'll be back at our room ina sec."

"Can you just… check us out and get our stuff? I don't want to go in there." Sam asked, his voice tight with anxiety.

"I need to clean you up a little first, but then we can-"

"_Please_, Dean. I- I can't go in that room. I just need to stay in the car for a while, okay? Please."

"Okay," Dean replied, giving his brother a calculating look. "Butas soon aswe get out of town we're stopping and checking you over, got it?"

Sam nodded, looking ridiculously grateful. Dean pulled up in front of the motel and opened his door.

"I'll be right back, okay?" He hesitated, halfway out of the car. "You sure you're okay while I get our stuff?"

"Yeah. Just... hurry, okay?" Sam looked away, apparently embarrassed.

"You bet, little brother."

* * *

Dean made record time packing, threw some cash at the motel clerk, and had the Impala on the road in less than five minutes. Sam sat slumped in the passenger seat, his long legs pulled towards him. 

"What the hell, happened, Dude? I mean _Jesus_, you were only gone fifteen minutes, and look at you! Did you have another vision?"

"Yeah, uh, three, actually."

"What? _Three_?"

"I think they're being triggered when I touch things."

His fists clenched in his lap. "Or when people touch me. They're getting worse, Dean. I can't stop seeing-" his voice choked off and he turned his face away, swallowing convulsively.

Dean sighed, allowing himself a moment to absorb this new information. Things were quickly spiraling out of control – this had gone from bad to worse faster than Dean could have anticipated, and he felt completely out of his league. Sighting a dirt turn-off ahead, he pulled the car over and shut off the engine.

"I promise you, we'll fix this. But right now we need to clean you up, okay?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed, the lack of resistance mildly unsettling. Dean reached into the back seat for the first aid kit and pulled out some gauze and alcohol. He saoked that guaze and gently wiped at the drying blood under his brother's nose, resting his palm on the back of Sam's head to steady him.

Sam flinched at the contact, and Dean thought he'dtriggered a vision - until he felt the warm stickiness of blood under his hand.

"Shit, Sam, why didn't you tell me you'd hit your head?" he chastised, turning his brother away from him so he could see the wound. Sam shrugged. There was small scrape on his scalp, beginning to clot over.

"This might sting a little," he warned, dabbing at the blood-slicked hair around the injury. Sam remained still and quiet, not showing any reaction to the pain.

Dean had wiped away most of the blood when he saw what looked like a small, red birthmark under the hair at the base of Sam's skull. Puzzled, he brushed the hair aside with his thumb to expose it.

"Goddamnit…" he breathed, his heart sinking. It wasn't a birthmark, it was a rune. And it was tattooed onto his brother's head.

* * *

A/N: Ah, the plot thickens! Things will begin to come together soon, be patient! 


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I have blatantly misrepresented the use of Nordic Runes in this chapter. The reverse meanings are real, although some are given selectively (portions of the definitions ignored, etc.) for the sake of the plot. But that's the beauty of writing fiction – reality is what you make it. :)

* * *

Sam felt his brother moving the hair at the base of his skull and heard him curse softly. Some of the numbness that had settled over him lifted,replaced by foreboding.

"What?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "What is it?"

"Did you get any tats during your wild days at Stanford, Sam?"

"_What?_ No. Like I could afford that… Now what the hell is going on?"

Dean sighed and sat back, waiting for Sam to turn towards him.

"You've got some sort of rune on your scalp. It looks like a tattoo."

"Are you kidding me? I mean - do you think this is why…" he trailed off, one hand reaching unconsciously for the back of his head.

"I don't think it's a coincidence,"

Sam let his breath escape in a rush, closing his eyes and leaning gingerly against the seat.

"What do we do?" he asked softly.

"I don't know, Sammy. First we have to research it – figure out exactly what kind of rune this is, what it does, who would use it, and how it got on you. Do you have any idea when it might have happened?"

"I would say about two months ago, but only because that's when these new visions started. I can't imagine how it got there…"

"Okay, well, we need to get somewhere where we can research them, figure this out."

Sam felt his breath catch and looked away.

"I… I don't know if I _can_ go anywhere right now. Every time I touch something, or _move_, I have a vision. Except for when I touch you or the Impala. And I don't know how much more of this I can take, Dean…"

"You can hang out here in the car, Sam. I can handle a little research on my own. You should probably get some rest, anyhow. You look like shit."

Sam looked slightly less desperate as he shot Dean an annoyed look.

"Thanks for the words of comfort, Dean."

"Oh, hey, no problem, little brother. Anytime." Dean grinned and pulled back on the road. "Make yourself useful and check the map for the closest place that would have a decent library."

* * *

Four hours later, Sam sat dozing lightly in the Impala in front of the Ashmont City Library, waiting for his brother. The interior of the car was warm and silent, and he felt ridiculously grateful to be locked safely inside of it. The Impala was now his shield from a world of pain and involuntary voyeurism. He had given Dean plenty of shit about his car, mostly because it was an easy button to push, but he swore silently that he would never make fun of her again. He thought he might totally lose his mind if he were exposed to the rest of the world right now.

While looking for the original rune to draw as a reference, Dean had discovered four more runes in a line at the base of his skull. He had sketched them all carefully, patted Sam's shoulder in silent consolation, and left to gather resources at the library. Sam had been waiting, lost in his thoughts, for about an hour and a half now. He'd had to resist the urge to claw at his scalp and _tear_ the runes from his skin.

He jumped as someone knocked on the window, but it was only Dean, gesturing towards the locked door and the keys in the ignition. Sam leaned over and popped the door for him, noting the sheaf of paper in his hands.

"What'd you find?" he asked hastily.

"It's definitely connected to your visions, Sam." Dean said, sliding into the driver's seat and gestured to the papers. "I found the definitions of the runes online – they're traditional Norse runes from the Elder Futhark alphabet, but they're all reversed except for the first one – it's sort of sideways, which I suppose means it's halfway reversed."

"So what do they mean?"

"The first one is Kenaz. In its usual position it means 'vision' and 'open to new energy'. Reversed, it means 'nakedness', 'exposure', and 'loss of illusion'"

"Okay," Sam said weakly, unable to think of a proper response. He gestured for his brother to continue.

"Next is Beranko – 'loss of control, blurring of consciousness'. Then we have Uruz reversed, which means 'misdirected force, domination by others, sickness, ignorance, lust, brutality, and violence.' And Dagaz – 'blindness, hopelessness'"

Dean paused, looking worried.

"What about the last one?" Sam asked, "What does it mean?"

"It's called Wunjo. It means 'possession by higher forces.'"

* * *

Sam lay in the backseat, his mind churning. Something was trying to possess him, and he had no idea what it was or how it had gotten its claws into him. Dean had suggested he get some rest, but all he could do was stare at the back of his brother's seat and wonder what was going to happen to him next. He searched his memory desperately for any sort of clue, some moment when he could've been oblivious to an attack, but there was nothing.

Dean was trying to play it cool and calm, but Sam could see the fear in his eyes. He half suspected that Dean had suggested the nap so that he wouldn't be awake to see the worry he felt.

_What the hell are we gonna do?_

"Sammy, stop thinking so damn loud and get some rest."

_How does he do that?_

"It's kinda hard to sleep when mysterious forces are using dreams and visions to drive you mad and then possess you."

"I could sing you a lullaby." suggested, and Sam could hear the grin in his voice.

"Don't you think I've been through enough?"

"You wound me, little brother " Dean clasped at his heart dramatically. "I've been told that I have the voice of an _angel_."

"Your forth grade music teacher doesn't count, Dean." Sam scoffed.

"Hey, she went to school for that shit, alright? She knew what she was talking about!"

"Well, then, I guess puberty was rough on you in more ways than one, cause you sure as hell don't sound like an angel now."

"What do you mean, 'rough on me in more ways that one'? Puberty was the best thing that ever happened to me!"

"And the worst thing that ever happened to the fathers of this country's teenaged girls. Remember Missy Franco's dad, when he caught you two in their pool?"

Dean chuckled.

"Yeah, Mr. Franco handled that shotgun like he'd had some experience… He woulda made a decent Hunter."

Sam burst out laughing, insanely happy just to be having a normal moment with his brother. But even as he continued to joke with Dean, a part of him wondered how long it would be before some demon evicted him from his own life, and he lost this kind of camaraderie forever.

* * *

A/N: It's a little bit short, but I have to work today and it was all I had time to do this morning (when I should have been running errands and doing chores!) 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Sam shifted restlessly, and Dean knew he was still awake.

They were stopped for the night, parked in a local beach's parking lot and trying to get some much needed rest. His little brother was stretched out as best he could in the back seat, head towards the open back door. Dean had unrolled his sleeping bag on the packed dirt ground just beside the car. Sam had tried to convince his older brother to go to a motel and get a room for himself, at least, but Dean had insisted on staying close to Sam. There was no way he was going to go sleep in a bed and leave Sam unprotected in the car.

"Go to sleep, Sam." He mumbled, tired of listening to the younger Winchester toss and turn. There was a sigh from the back seat.

"Dean, I'm going to lose my mind, aren't I?" Sam asked softly.

"No, Sam, you're not – I'm not gonna let that happen. Now you need to stop thinking like that." He answered evenly.

"Come on, Dean – I mean, we have _no_ idea what this thing is, how to stop it, I can't even leave this car without being overwhelmed by visions. I'm not going to able to hold it together much longer."

"Sam, you don't get what I'm trying to say – you _have _to stop thinking like that, or you're putting yourself in more danger. It's what it wants – that's the whole _point_ of these visions – to make you vulnerable to possession by wearing you down mentally. You know that people who are afraid or depressed are more susceptible to being taken by supernatural forces. It's spelled out in those runes, man – visions and vulnerability, loss of control, violence, _hopelessness_, and then possession. You hafta hold it together until we figure this out and banish the fucker that did it."

"I know… I just- It's hard, Dean." Sam's voice hitched slightly.

"I know, Sammy. But I'm right here, okay? So try to get some sleep – you need to keep your strength up."

"Dean…"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. You know, for… everything."

"Dude, don't turn this into a Lifetime Movie, alright? Seriously…"

"Goodnight, Dean." Sam chuckled, rolling over, and Dean could hear the '_I love you too_' in his voice.

* * *

Sam woke the next morning feeling like he'd slept in a sock drawer. But while his body felt stiff and sore, his mind felt slightly rejuvenated. He'd managed to sleep through the night without a nightmare, and the coming of daylight seemed to restore a little hope to the situation.

Dean had busted out the little kerosene camp stove and heated up a can of beans for breakfast. Sam sat in the open door of the Impala eating his share, watching the sky lighten over the still, glassy lake. The occasional Loon called out over the water, and despite the mournful tone to the cries, Sam thought they were beautiful and calming.

"You know, maybe beans weren't such a good idea if I have to be stuck in a car with _you_ all day…" Dean commented from where he sat, leaning against the car.

"I'm the one that should be concerned, dude – your body does terrible things to food when it digests them. Terrible, unholy things. The hundred or so Dutch Ovens you gave me growing up are proof of _that_."

"Yeah," Dean laughed, "And that one I gave you last week, too."

"I'm in awe of your maturity and poise, Dean."

"Hey, thanks Sam. I'm usually only told that people are in awe of my huge-"

"Dean!"

"-vocabulary." Dean finished, grinning.

"Jackass."

"Guilty as charged, but it runs in the family, bitch." Dean pulled himself to his feet. "Now let's start figuring out how to get rid of those runes."

Sam scratched at the back of his head unconsciously.

"Maybe if we just…you know, remove them?... it'll break the spell." He suggested.

"They're pretty small," Dean agreed. "I mean, it would still suck out loud for _you_, but it might work, and you wouldn't be able to see the scars under all that hair."

"Should we, uh, cut them out, or what?"

Dean grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable.

"The scalp bleeds a lot," he said, glancing away. "If we burned them off instead, it would cauterize the wounds and you wouldn't have to lose all that blood. Plus, it'd be over quicker."

Sam gulped nervously but nodded his agreement. Anything was better than being possessed.

"Okay," Dean said, staring at Sam for a moment more before pulling out the first aid kit and his pocket knife. He handed Sam some gauze and alcohol.

"Just clean the back of your head with this, but don't use too much alcohol. I don't want your head to go up in flames."

Sam smiled weakly and did as he was told, watching as Dean began heating the blade in the camp stove flame.

_Oh, this isn't going to be fun…_

Dean straightened up, holding the knife. The tip was glowing a faint red.

"Ready?" he asked, looking determined.

"Just do it, okay?" Sam gulped, turning his back to his brother. He heard Dean approach, felt him put a steadying hand on his head and brush back the hair.

"Okay," Dean said, his voice slightly unsteady, and then there was a searing point of pain against his scalp. He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut as it intensified, spreading rapidly.

"Stop, Dean!" he cried, jerking away. _Why was his brother still burning him?_

"Sam, I'm not touching you!" Dean's voice sounded far away.

A sudden surge of pure agony lanced through him like electricity. He heard himself scream, felt his body convulse, and then he knew nothing at all.

* * *

Dean had barely pressed the hot knife to Sam's scalp, feeling sick and guilty, when his brother lurched away from him, panting and shouting for him to stop. Dean knew it was painful, but Sam seemed to be in a lot more pain than expected.

"Sam, I'm not touching you!" He shouted.

Sam took a great, shuddering breath and _screamed_, raw anguish in his voice.

"Sam!"

He reached for his brother, panic flooding him. When Sam started to jerk and convulse, Dean swore and grabbed at his head, trying to keep it from rapping against the door frame. The seizure lasted only a few moments, but when it ended Sam slumped bonelessly in the seat, unconscious.

"Sam!" Dean called again, easing his brother's torso back to lean against his chest. Sam was completely still, and it took only a few seconds for Dean to realize that his brother wasn't breathing.

* * *

A/N: I'm so evil… But I wasn't always this devious - the plot bunnies made me this way. 


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: This is REALLY short, but I didn't want to leave you guys with that cliffie for too long. I wanted to write more but I spent all day working with eleven hyperactive emotionally disturbed children, and I am SPENT. Whew, those guys can run you ragged! So rather than wait until tomorrow, I'm posting this now. Enjoy. :)

* * *

Dean gasped, an icy dread surging through his veins. He fumbled hastily for his brother's wrist, searching for a pulse. Nothing. Sam's wrist flopped lifelessly in his grip.

"Fuck, Sam, don't you do this!" He shouted, hauling Sam bodily out of the car and onto the flat ground. His body felt heavy and empty at the same time – dead. _No!_

Grabbing Sam's face in both his hands, he tilted his brother's head back and pinched his nose shut. He took a deep breath, sealed Sam's open mouth with his own, and blew until he saw Sam's chest rise. He did it again, then locked his elbows and put one hand over the other on the notch below his brother's sternum. He pressed down hard, compressing Sam's chest. _One, two, three, four, five…_ he counted to fifteen, then paused and felt for a pulse.

Sam's heart was still, his chest unmoving.

"Goddamn it Sam, come on!"

Breathe, breathe, compressions. Check for a pulse. Nothing. Dean's insides clenched with blind, animalistic terror and he sobbed.

"Come on, Sam, Please! Don't you fucking _do _this to me!"

He gave two more breaths, and was moving his hands into position to do more compressions when Sam jerked and made a chocking, gasping noise in his throat. His hands lifted weakly from his sides, like he was trying to reach his head, before thudding feebly to the ground again. He coughed, breathing a little deeper.

"Oh thank God," Dean cried, pulling his brother into a sitting position and leaning Sam's forehead against his shoulder. He had to fight the urge to squeeze Sam, instead fisting one hand in the back of his tee shirt and cradling the back of Sam's head with the other. He took an unsteady breath, momentarily afraid that he was going to weep with relief.

Sam continued to pull in deep, ragged breaths, leaning weakly into Dean.

"Sam, are you alright? Talk to me, little brother…"

"What- what happened?"

"You had some sort of reaction when I burned off the first rune. You went into convulsions, and then you weren't breathing…" Dean trailed off, pulling his brother a little closer. He didn't want to tell Sam that he had been _dead_. He wasn't sure he could even say the words. But Sam seemed to pick up on what he hadn't said.

"I guess we're not trying that again, are we?" He said wryly, pulling back a little and sitting up. This close up, he looked awful – as if Dean hadn't actually managed to revive him, as if he were a corpse.

Dean shuddered.

"No. Definitely not."

Sam suddenly seemed to realize where he was and he jumped, then relaxed slightly.

"Maybe it worked," he said hesitantly. "I'm not having any visions."

"That's good – maybe destroying one of the runes will be enough to break the spell entirely."

Sam looked at him, unmasked hope in his eyes.

"Come on, Sammy, let's get you off the ground."

Dean hauled Sam to his feet and eased him back into the car. His kept his face calm, but inside he was praying to anyone that would listen –

_Please let this be over._

_Please don't take my brother._

* * *

A/N: Could it be that easy? Oh, but I'm eeeee-vil, remember? More soon, I promise… And thanks to everyone for the incredible reviews. You guys kick so much ass! 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

It was 4 am, and Dean was wide awake.

Sam slept quietly in the hotel bed next to his, mercifully able to tolerate leaving the car for the comfort of a room. He had fallen into the bed almost as soon as they had checked in, his body shaking with fatigue and shock, and Dean had been sitting and staring at him since.

Despite the apparent cessation of any visions, he couldn't shake the feeling that Sam was still in very real danger. That dread, coupled with the fresh memory of Sam's lifeless body, were what kept him from sleep.

There were too many unanswered questions – who or what was trying to possess his brother? Why? And how the hell had Sam gotten those runes on his scalp? Without those answers, they were going in blind. And doing just that had literally _killed_ Sam. They needed more information.

Ignoring a jaw-popping yawn, Dean powered up Sam's laptop and logged on to the hotel's wireless internet connection. He stared blankly at the browser screen for a moment, unsure what to search for, then decided to start with the basics. He typed in _demonic possession, runes_ and hit enter. The page refreshed, the heading informing him that 189,704 results had been found.

"Okay…" he mumbled, trying to get comfortable. "This is going to take a while."

* * *

While Dean researched, Sam dreamt.

_He stood in a motel room, nauseatingly decorated in Seventies orange and green, watching himself sleep. Dean was sprawled out on the bed closest the door, snoring gently. There was an immense air of Déjà vu to the scene, and a moment later Sam realized he was seeing a hotel room they had already stayed in, two months previously._

_As he watched, a small, white snake slithered across the floor towards his sleeping form. Its body trailed off into a tail of smoke that whispered after it over the carpet. When it reached the bed the entire snake dispersed into ether and flowed up the dangling coverlet before rematerializing next the pillow._

_It opened its mouth and long fangs were exposed, a thick droplet of blood forming on the end of each. He stood rooted, frozen, as the snake reared back, its eyes flashing, and lunged at the back of his sleeping head._

Sam lurched up in his bed, hands flying to the back of his head as he scrambled away from his pillow. He was frighteningly disoriented for a moment, until his brother's questioning voice registered and he realized where he was.

"Sam? You okay?" Dean was moving toward him, looking grim and concerned.

"Dean," he gasped, "I know how I got the tattoos."

Dean looked momentarily perplexed.

"What? How?"

"I was dreaming," Sam said, and Dean's face fell a little.

"A vision?"

"Yeah, but this time it's a good thing… sorta…" He rubbed at the back of his head, unnerved . "I saw us, sleeping in a really crappy hotel room, and this white snake was in the room with us. It wasn't entirely corporeal, it was kind of… smoky. It had blood on its fangs and it bit the back of my head."

"A snake?" Dean asked, staring intently,

"Yeah…"

Dean got up and retrieved the laptop, wordlessly scrolling back a few pages on the browser.

"What is it?" Sam asked, a little annoyed at being left in the dark.

"I think I know what we're dealing with now." Dean said, turning the screen towards Sam.

"A djinni?"

"They usually take the form of a mist or smoke, but they can take on physical form – usually a snake. They're generally invisible to humans, but they're capable of possessing them. They show up predominantly in Middle Eastern cultures, but there're mentions of them in Norse mythology as well."

"Does it say how to stop it?"

Dean sighed and turned the screen towards himself again.

"Not really. It mentions that plucking three hairs from an all black cat with a white-tipped tail, burning them, and inhaling the smoke will dispel a djinni from a possessed person's body, but what are the chances of finding a cat like that?"

"Not good," Sam agreed.

"It sounds like it tattooed you with its own blood – many cultures believe that blooding something will claim it for their own, you know, like a 'property of' kind of thing."

"Great." Sam sighed, "I'll probably get some demonic version of Hepatitis from the little fucker."

Dean chuckled.

"Better that than demonic crabs."

Sam blinked, an involuntary picture forming in his mind, then grimaced in disgust. One hand drifted to the base of his skull again, scratching lightly.

"Stop that." Dean admonished, pulling his arm away. "You'll get that burn infected with your grubby fingernails."

Sam froze, his eyes narrowing in confusion before his hand shot back up to his hair.

"Damn it, Sam, cut it out!"

"No, wait – Dean…" Sam looked suddenly demoralized.

"What?" Dean snapped impatiently.

"The burn, it doesn't hurt. I mean, I think it's gone."

"Gone?"

Dean pushed his brother's head down and pulled the wall lamp towards them. He gingerly brushed the hair away from the base of Sam's skull. To his dismay, he saw that where there _had_ been a angry patch of blistered skin, there was now delicate looking fresh scar tissue, pink and smooth except for the faint returning blush of the Kenaz rune.

* * *

Neither of them slept any more that night, sobered by the knowledge that the rune was reforming. Sam had withdrawn after Dean broke the news to him, and now he sat against the headboard, looking tense and jittery as morning sun streamed through the blinds.

Dean was still desperately researching, trying to find a loophole, an escape - any way out of this that didn't involve some unholy creature wearing Sammy's skin like a Halloween costume.

It was strange to be the one doing the geek thing. That was normally Sam's shtick, but Dean had a suspicion that his little brother was too scared to do much of anything right now. He was aware of the desperate looks Sam shot his way when he thought he wasn't looking, and Dean wished fervently that there were some way to reassure him.

_Get this thing to leave him alone – that'll reassure us BOTH._

Dean choked down a curse and forced himself to release the fists he'd unconsciously formed. He needed to stay calm, for Sam's sake.

He had no sooner finished the thought when Sam gave a strangled gasp from the bed and jerked once.

Dean recognized the glazed, empty look of a vision immediately, and his heart sank. Apparently the brief reprieve was over and Sam was once again a human lightning rod for every painful, violent memory that echoed beneath the surface of his surroundings.

Unwilling to let his brother suffer, Dean lifted him swiftly into a fireman's hold and carried his unresponsive form outside to the Impala. He didn't understand why it seemed to shield Sam from the visions, but right now, he didn't care why. He only cared that it did.

* * *

A/N: Another slightly short chapter, but I have a seriously messed up shoulder right now and typing is a tedious and uncomfortable process. Fortunately for you, the plot bunnies threatened me with further bodily harm if I didn't post. :) 


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: This is the beginning of the end, Ladies and Gentlemen. One more chapter after this one (13 is my lucky number!). Warning – chick-flick moments ahead. ;)

* * *

Sam sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, his forehead pressed to the window as he watched the landscape fly by at 50 mph. They were on the road again, headed West towards Kansas. At a loss, they had decided that perhaps Missouri Mosley would be able to assist them. Sam secretly felt that it was a pointless effort. This was going to end soon, one way or another.

He couldn't hang on to his sanity much longer. Already his mind seemed jumbled and distorted, irrational thoughts and fears wreaking havoc with his ability to remain calm. He felt like he was slipping away, bit by bit. And he was terrified that this time, Dean wouldn't be able to save him.

"Dean, I need you to promise me something." He said, looking up.

"Sam…"

There was a warning tone to Dean's voice. He knew where this was going.

"No, Dean. I need you to promise. That if this thing… takes me, if we can't stop it – I don't want to live like that, Dean. A prisoner in my own mind, watching myself do horrible things… Promise me you won't let me go on that way."

Dean's hand's clenched on the wheel and the muscles in his jaw flexed and released. He shook his head.

"I'm not gonna let that happen, Sam. It's not going to come to that."

"But if it does, I need to know that…" Sam trailed off, staring intently at his brother.

"What, Sammy? That I can kill my little brother? That I can fucking _murder_ you? Cause I'm sorry, but I can't promise you that. Now stop thinking that way – right now. You need to keep a clear head."

Sam sighed, recognizing that the conversation was officially over, and went back to watching the road speed by. He could only hope that when he did succumb to madness and possession, Dean would find the mercy and the resolve to end his life.

* * *

Dean ground his teeth, resisting the urge to smack Sam. He was glad that his brother had dropped the subject when he did – otherwise he might have had to physically gag him. The thought of killing Sam made Dean want to double over and puke his insides out. It was simply inconceivable. Sam was going to beat this, _they_ were going to beat this. They'd faced unspeakable creatures and killers their whole lives – no way was some sneaky little snake taking them out.

_Must be easy, hanging back and waiting until your prey goes insane. Try showing up in person, motherfucker. I'll hurt you so bad you'll wish you'd never taken corporeal form._

He glanced over at Sam, who was slumped against the door, his eyes beginning to drift shut.

Helplessness flooded him and made him feel lightheaded. It was nearly dusk and they were still entirely too far from Kansas – it would be another few days of driving before they could get to Missouri, and Dean wasn't even sure she could help them. They were going to her simply as a last resort, a last ditch effort in the absence of any other options.

He had no way to fight this thing. He was letting Sammy down, failing him.

"Sam," he said softly, suddenly needing to hear his brother's voice.

Sam turned and looked at him, his face oddly blank. As Dean was opening his mouth to speak again, Sam's eyes slid to the right, staring blankly, and his body went limp against the seatbelt.

"Sam?" Dean decelerated and extended an arm, shaking his brother's shoulder. Sam jerked rapidly under his hand, unresponsive.

Dean cursed and slammed on the brakes, pulling the car off the road onto a flat patch of tall grass surrounded by trees. Sam stopped convulsing almost as soon as the car stopped, but his eyes remained wide and vacant.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, trying to call his brother back to reality. Desperate, he slapped Sam hard in the face.

Sam's eyes focused hazily on Dean for a moment.

"It's here…" he breathed, and Dean had to lean forward to hear his voice.

"The dijiin?"

Sam's eyes rolled away again.

"Now… hap'ning now…"

"No!" Dean cried, realizing what his brother was trying to tell him. They needed more time, time to fix this.

Sam pulled in a deep, gasping breath and his back arched up off the seat. His eyes rolled completely back in his skull.

"Sam, don't!"

Dean felt furious tears form in his eyes. He grasped his brother's face in both his hands and leaned toward him.

"Sammy, you can't go. Listen to me – fight it, okay? Come on…"

Dean heard a soft, eerie hissing and a white smoke filtered into the car through the vents. Dean swatted uselessly at it – his hands passed straight through without effect and the mist advanced towards Sam's head.

"No!" Dean screamed as the dijiin streamed into his brother's ears, nose, and open mouth. He clutched at the front of Sam's shirt and shook him.

"Fight it, Sam!"

Sam's eyes snapped forward again and the air left his body in a violent rush. His eyes locked onto Dean's, full of panic. He made a choking sound and his hands shot up to grab at Dean's wrists.

"Sam? Please…"

Sam choked again, his eyes screaming at Dean.

"Dean…" he gasped, and his eyes started to close.

"You can't have him!" Dean screamed, "He's _mine_!"

Sudden comprehension struck him like a blow and he gasped. _Please don't let it be too late…_ he prayed silently. _Please let this work…_

"Sam, hang on! Keep fighting!" he ordered, and Sam's eyes opened a little wider as he continued to pant for breath. Dean pulled his knife from under the front seat, his fingers stinging as he cut them in his haste.

Gritting his teeth he pressed the blade into his right palm. Brightly colored blood pooled in his hand and dribbled from the ends of his fingers. He grabbed at Sam's right hand, his grip slippery, and with a silent apology sliced open his brother's palm as well.

He clasped Sam's bleeding hand in his own, pressing the cuts together and sqeezing.

"He's mine." Dean hissed, pulling Sam to him and compressing their joined hands between them. "Mine, you hear me? I claim him, with my blood."

Sam wheezed and shuddered, his eyelids fluttering wildly as his eyes darted back and forth beneath them.

"Come on, Sammy…" Dean pleaded, their mingled blood seeping into the chest of his shirt. This had­to work – if the spell was bound to Sam with the dijiin's blood, then his blood _had_ to break the spell. He was Sam's _brother_.

Sam jolted against him and arced back. His limbs twitched and he moaned, his eyes closing. Dean sobbed with relief as smoke began to seep from under his brother's eyelids like tears. He watched as it disappeared back through the vents before turning back to the younger Winchester.

He cupped the back of Sam's neck with his free hand and pressed their foreheads together. Sam's eyes snapped open and he gave a weak cry of alarm.

"It's okay, kiddo. I got ya. You're okay." Dean reassured, squeezing the back of his neck.

"Dean?" Sam sounded lost and very young.

"Yeah, Sammy. It's me."

"Is it over?" he whispered, his voice wavering.

"It's over,"

Sam sobbed wordlessly, collapsing against Dean with relief. He clung to his older brother as all the fear and grief he'd tried to suppress for three days was finally released.

Dean wrapped his arm around his brother's back and held him, unable to form any more words around the lump in his throat. He pressed his cheek to the top of Sam's head and concentrated on the _thump, thump, thump_ of the heart that beat under his blood-slicked hand, still sandwiched between them – a heart that said only _Sam, Sam, Sam_ when it beat.

His brother was still his brother.

* * *

A/N: One more chapter, folks. Then, according to my contract, I am free of this particular plot bunny. Alas, bunnies _are_ known for their rapid reproduction, and several more have popped up as of late… :) All the kind feedback is definitely motivation to keep writing, so thanks. 


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: The final chapter!

* * *

The evening sun lit up the lake like it was on fire, and Sam thought he'd never felt so relaxed in his life.

After composing themselves in the Impala, Dean had decreed the next week an official vacation from hunting and they had driven here, to Solomon Lake, West Virginia. For $100 they had rented a remote cabin by the lake, as well as the use of the wooden dock and questionable looking rowboat.

They were currently sitting in lawn chairs on the dock, beers in hand and fishing lines drifting lazily in the water.

"You know, this really is more of a pond than a lake…" Dean said from beside him. But it was more of an observation than a complaint, and Sam smiled.

"Yeah, but we haven't seen another human being in three days – I think I love it here." He sighed, stretching his arms over his head contentedly.

"I wouldn't mind some fish in this 'lake', though…" Dean sighed, tugging halfheartedly at his fishing pole. "Not a single fuckin' nibble all day…"

"Why don't you try scenting your lure with your special 'musk of manliness'? You're smelling a little ripe, and by your logic, that should draw all the female fish within two miles, right?" Sam grinned mischievously and took a swig of beer.

"Fuckin' weasel.." Dean laughed, flicking his bottle cap at him. "I save your sanity and your life, and this is the thanks I get? Next time, you're on your own, bitch."

"No, I don't think so." Sam said softly. "You'll always have my back."

"Okay," Dean sighed dramatically, "Fine – I'll always have your back. Jesus, can you stop being a girl for like, two seconds? You've destroyed a perfectly good bit of verbal sparring with your estrogen-soaked sentiments."

Sam grinned and turned back to watching the sun sink towards the horizon. The water was calm and smooth. Birdsong burst from several trees around the clearing, loud and clear in the face of the approaching dusk. He wished he could stay here forever.

* * *

Dean watched his brother watching the water, his face bathed in a golden glow. He felt fresh relief flood through his belly, as it had every time he had looked at Sam in the last three days. He wondered vaguely how long it would be before that went away, or if it ever would.

All he knew was that his brother, sitting beside him relaxed, happy, and free of possession, was a gift. Sam still flinched a little when he touched unfamiliar things, like he was bracing himself to see something horrible. Once the runes had bled through his skin and been scrubbed away by Dean, the visions had stopped. Still, it would be a while before the memory of all that pain faded.

"This is my favorite time of the day," Sam sighed, staring at a loon drifting sedately in the middle of the cove. "The gloaming."

"The what?"

"Gloaming. It's what the Scottish call twilight. It's from Old English _glomung, _or 'dusk'."

"You are _such_ a geek…" Dean said in a stage whisper.

"Hey, you asked, man."

"_Old_ _English_…. Doesn't sound like English to me at all…"

"It's-" Sam cut himself off, pressing his lips together and shaking his head. "Forget it. You're deliberately playing ignorant to goad me, and I won't be drawn into your immature games."

"I'm rubber, you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!" Dean taunted, making a grotesque face.

"Oh, stunningly mature..." Sam chuckled, waving a dismissing hand at him.

"I.know.you.are.but.what.am.i?" Dean said faintly under his breath.

"Dean, that doesn't even make sense!"

"Doesn't it, though?" Dean stroked his chin, trying to look mysterious, and apparently failing, as Sam doubled over with mirth.

Dean watched his brother laughing in the peaceful evening, letting the fading glow of the sun warm him. For the moment, they were safe, they were happy, and they were together. That was enough. That was all he needed.

"You're an ass, you know that?" Sam choked, grinning and wiping at his streaming eyes.

" Yeah, Sam." He smiled_. I love you too_.

* * *

A/N: Ta da! It's done! Thanks to everyone for the incredibly kind and thoughtful reviews. They made it possible for me to stay motivated to finish the story. And to start my current project, Oubliette. (Please forgive the shameless, self-promoting plug:) 


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